Gaunt

We grasp our cardboard heroes
as we toast with our goblets of sand
and Jesus and God are the Neros
That get in the way of our plan.

And our joys come from drinking our coffee
and breakfast on empty white plates
and our weakening frame craves for
nightmares, like the ones that we drempt we just ate.

The lives that we live have grown thinner
so we fill it with tumescent idols.
enslaved by their sequins
and glittering bridles
We race along panting and chanting their idylls.


If the real Jesus just stood up and joined us
would we notice our hunger at all?
If the Bread of Life offered a hand-out
- if he stretched his own scar punctured hand out,
would there ever be any more doubt?

As it turns out that God who defeated our plans
was always our only hope.
He offered a feast at his table
while we dined upon sawdust and soap
until one day I noticed my skeletal frame
and went chasing the man from the store

He sated my hunger
and made me wonder
what I was fighting him for?